


Like I'll Never Be The Same

by irisesandlilies



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Infertility, Minor Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, sharon’s love language is making sure natasha is eating well!, this is a mix of comics sharon and mcu sharon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25452487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisesandlilies/pseuds/irisesandlilies
Summary: “You’re a good person, Natasha.”Most days Natasha doesn’t even feel like a person, but she nods anyway. Sheknowsshe trusts Sharon’s judgment.
Relationships: Sharon Carter/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Like I'll Never Be The Same

**Author's Note:**

> oh, the way your makeup stains my pillowcase…like I'll never be the [same](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SRLLHIE8RZU&list=PLPzJW5SMqnBz_DiQPYjrnuZJbYWRGOdaF&index=2)
> 
> unbeta'd, I wrote this on a whim
> 
> I was feeling like writing some soft natsharon, so here’s this. this story exists in the same universe/timeline as my steve/bucky piece…aka post-catws, non-canon compliant. 
> 
> heads up for canon typical ptsd related discussions and a discussion of infertility because I had to write something to rectify that bit in ultron because it still makes me sick that they equated Nat to a monster because she was sterile. also endo awareness!

Natasha doesn’t know Sharon Carter, not really. She knows Agent 13 better, knows they fall into an easy rhythm alongside one another when placed on missions for SHIELD. She knows the blonde is surveilling Steve, and she doesn’t know, but she _thinks_ Fury’s chosen a good agent for the job. 

After manhandling a handcuffed arms dealer, that SHIELD has had their eye on, into the back of a van, Sharon turns to Natasha; there’s a purple welt blooming on her cheek and a blood-caked gash across her forehead, “you hungry?” 

A laugh bubbles from Natasha’s chest, exhaled with a shrug, “sure.” 

The waitress’s face morphs into an expression of quiet horror when they trek into a nearby diner and take a booth. Nat’s still in her suit, a gun holstered on each hip, and Sharon is donned in a bulletproof vest, her white blouse peaking from underneath wrinkled and misted with arterial spray. 

“Hey.” Sharon announces softly when they’re seated opposite each other, as though it’s only them in the diner, the world. 

“Hey.” Natasha mimics, a well-worn smirk toying at the corner of her mouth. 

Sharon is surveying her with a calculated sharpness, brow quirked in an analytical manner. A very serious tone outlines her words when she asks, “do you think they have milkshakes here?”

Natasha’s face folds into a smile, she lightly nudges Sharon’s shin with her boot beneath the greasy table. 

Sharon laughs sweetly, a warmth tinting her face. 

Natasha studies her over the top of her unfolded menu, a subtle reverence rounding her gaze. 

“Yeah, I think they do.” Natasha replies gently. 

Natasha notes in the red and blue tint of neon how Sharon’s smile always seems to gleam in her dark eyes, as though there’s a glow inside her threatening to spill out. Natasha wants to bask in that warmth.

—

_“Be careful, Steve. You might not want to pull on that thread.”_

Pulling that thread means unraveling her past too. 

But she knows Steve, well enough to identify the quiet lovelorn gleam in his eye. She knew him intimately enough to understand that no caution, no soul could stop him from pulling that thread until the entire tapestry of Hydra was unraveled and he had his boy back. 

She didn’t shy from her past, but that didn’t make the miserable trek down memory lane any more appealing. 

When the layer of deception was pulled back and exhibited across the internet she felt like she had to grieve for the person she had pretended to be. 

She agrees to help Steve, prod the wound she bore shaped like her past because she understood what the sentiment meant to him. She wanted to be good, as selfless as the woman who had closed the portal in The Battle of New York.

When she’d placed the Winter Soldier’s file in Steve’s hands and noted the way his delicate eyes hardened, she knew they were after something precious to him. 

In his search, Steve puts his trust in three people. 

Natasha figures that if she has to examine the red in her ledger, it will at least be with Sharon, a woman that Steve entrusts with the most beloved bit of his soul.

—

Sharon’s pen scrapes across the paper as she underlines a bit of intel.

Morning light filters through the gauzy curtains swaying against the window. Sharon and Natasha are sitting cross-legged on opposite sides of Sharon’s coffee table, scouring files for Sam and Steve who are following trails extending from Moscow. 

Sharon looks up, folding a gold strand behind her ear, eyes still slightly swollen with sleep. 

Natasha sips from her mug, keeping her fingertips wrapped around the warmth radiating from the coffee. She taps her pen in the other hand lazily, tilting her head and inquiring, “What’d you find?” 

Sharon features adopt an expression that stirs Natasha’s chest as she shifts uneasily. The purple shaded crescents under Sharon’s eyes appear more pronounced, her mouth quirked to the corner of her face. Natasha returns the fixation of Sharon’s gaze before Sharon abruptly returns to the file. 

There’s a pause, Natasha apprehensively tracing the rim of her cup with a poised finger.

“I can’t have kids either.” Sharon says quietly, her tone very deliberate. 

Natasha chest contracts, her heart feeling impossibly tight in the space between her lungs. 

“That’s basically what they told me, anyways.” Sharon captures Natasha’s eye and gestures a hand towards her abdomen, “endometriosis.” 

Sharon shrugs off Natasha careful stare and redirects her attention towards the file, _Natasha’s file._

Sharon unfolds her legs, stretching with a hum as her socked toes brush Natasha’s shin, “I always thought it was bullshit. Women’s worth being tied to their ability to procreate, I mean.” 

Natasha nods solemnly, picking at a fictitious bit of lint on her thigh. 

Sharon exhales a nervous chuckle, reaching for her mug and studying the last few sips, “Sorry, you probably don’t wanna talk about it.” 

Natasha clears her throat tentatively, “No, no.” She pulls her face towards Sharon’s, gnawing on her bottom lip as she tries to summon the proper words to her tongue, “I guess I’ve just never talked about it. Uh, Clint knows, I think, but he’s never said anything.” 

Sharon nods and her face is sober when Natasha continues, “I don’t think about it too much. Like you said, there’s more to me and my life than that.” 

Sharon’s mouth curls into a quiet smile, “yeah.” 

Sharon leans over the table, bringing a nimble hand to tuck a bit of hair from Natasha’s eyes behind her ear. 

“Let’s take a break, get some breakfast or something.”

Natasha waves a hand across the folders, “I can handle this. I lived it.” 

“I know, I know you can.” She nudges Natasha’s leg and grins, “but I think it’s a proven fact that reliving your shitty past is a lot easier with pancakes.”

—

The Red Room is abandoned now, rows of rusting metal bed frames lining the room. The scent of decay hangs heavy in the air, saturating their lungs.

There’s not much to glean from the complex, Peggy Carter had stormed it, flanked by the SSR and the 107th in ‘46. 

When the iron curtain was drawn any work done by the SSR to decimate operations in the building was ineffective. The Red Room bloomed again, stronger perhaps, after Peggy Carter’s presence had graced its walls. 

Steve doesn’t expect to unearth any new intel that Natasha couldn’t provide before, but they’re eyeing the dust-coated floor for footprints, destruction that couldn’t be attributed to time, any indication that Barnes had revisited this before them. 

The classrooms and dormitory are entirely unchanged, only the degradation of time separates them in Natasha’s memory. 

Sam surveys the sea of beds and their matching shackles, looking to Steve when he announces, “I don’t think anyone’s been here since the wall fell.” 

Natasha fixates numbly on the corner of the room, the bed positioned beneath a window. 

Sharon follows her stare, holstering her weapon as she moves to hover at Natasha’s side. 

“That one was yours?” 

Natasha gives a curt nod. 

Natasha feels Sharon’s warmth cast upon her as the blonde studies her profile, outlined in the glare of the snow just beyond the hazy glass. 

“Hey, Steve?” Sharon calls gently, “I don’t think he’s been here. We shouldn’t be here any longer than we need to.” 

Steve slings the shield on his back and Natasha catches the slump of his shoulders when she turns back towards the center of the room. 

“Nat?” 

“We haven’t seen all of the building yet, Steve.” Natasha tries for optimism, grief thick on her tongue. 

He knows her well enough to understand it’s a coded negative. 

She couldn’t imagine Barnes returning to the Red Room without leaving an indication, some mark of destruction. Natasha’s own fists were clenched at her sides, an attempt to keep herself from tearing at the walls. 

Natasha can see the resignation in Steve’s eyes. 

“Kind of want to burn this place to the ground.” Natasha mutters, the remark only falling on Sharon’s ears. 

“Let’s do it.” Sharon shrugs, her tone and expression sincere. 

“He’ll come back here, I’ll let him do the honors.” 

“Let’s get out of here.” Steve surrenders, turning towards the passage they’d followed from the classrooms. 

“I need a minute, you guys go ahead.” 

Sam, Steve, and Sharon all seem to open their mouth with a ready objection before understanding the plea in Natasha’s words. 

She watches their backs, notes their footfalls stopping several meters down the corridor. 

She crosses the space, coming to loom over the bed that had once belonged to her. She studies the narrow frame for a moment, her heart swollen with bitter recollections. 

She takes the gun from her belt, aiming it towards the pair of handcuffs secured to the bedpost. She fires a single shot, severing the cuff that had marred her wrist. When it clatters to the floor she kicks it aside, exhaling heavily. 

They’re waiting for her just beyond the classrooms. As they weave their way back through the building, Sharon catches her hand, her fingers tightening in reassurance for just a moment before she lets go and smiles softly.

—

Once back at the safe house, they strip their combat gear and Natasha seeks the refugee of the minuscule bathroom.

She leans over the chipped porcelain basin, gathering a handful of cool, metallic scented water and burying her face in her cupped palms. The water sifts through her splayed fingers and she watches it dance around the drain. Her breath wobbles in her throat when she attempts to exhale. 

She reaches for the threadbare towel beside her and pats her face dry, keeping her face hidden in the fabric for a moment longer than necessary. When she sets the towel aside her hands are still trembling so she grips the lip of the sink to steady them. 

There’s a soft knock at the slightly ajar door, the sliver of a glimpse into the hallway offers her nothing more than a shadowy figure. 

“I’ll be just a minute.” She calls over her shoulder, easily leveling her tone. She keeps her eyes fixated on the droplets of water sliding down the edges of the sink, counting each one as they descend. 

The soft click of the door demands Natasha’s attention. Sharon’s arms are folded across her chest and her back is pressed against the door, she’s sealed them in the lowly lit, tiled room alone. 

“Hey.” Natasha greets feebly. 

Sharon’s amiable face sours slightly with a frown. 

“Steve send you to check up on me?”

“Nope. He and Sam are busy fighting over who can give the other their survival rations.” 

That earns a faint chuckle from Natasha. 

Sharon shifts the brunt of her weight from the door and springs forward, “Wanna talk about it?” 

Natasha offers a quick shake of her head, damp strands of hair fluttering with the movement. 

“Okay.” 

When Natasha looks to Sharon’s response she finds Sharon’s arms extended, hovering in the air and accompanied by a quiet smile playing at her lips.

Natasha tips her head, she can’t place a motive to the gesture, “what are you doing?” 

“Offering you a hug, genius.” Sharon quips, pose unwavering.

Natasha furrows her brow and studies the blonde for a moment, she doesn’t have to look long because Sharon wears the same sincerity in her face as Rogers, and Wilson too when she thinks about it. A quirk in the mouth and glimmer in the eyes that doesn’t suggest pity, just a keen kindness. 

Natasha nods to convey her consent and Sharon folds her arms around her. 

Sharon has nearly half a foot in height over Natasha, but she’s never felt small in her presence. She tucks her face into her shoulder and her damp eyelashes catch on blonde curls. Sharon hums sweetly against her and presses her lips to the mess of auburn. 

Natasha presses her face further into Sharon warmth, as though she was desperately trying to conceal the weight of a lifetime of remorse. That ache had only been heightened by their encounter that evening. 

The evening had torn open all the scars that took the Widow’s shape. It had taken years for them to even begin to heal and the stitching had been plucked away more feverishly the longer she stood in the building where the Widow was made. 

Her lungs beg for a few fleeting breaths, trying to maintain her composure. She had spent so long learning how to craft the appearance she intended to communicate, but Sharon seems to draw each wretched habit from Natasha’s brain and tuck it away in her pocket with a smile because they were still part of Natasha and she wanted to keep every bit of her close. 

“Natasha.” Sharon pulls back slightly, keeping a steadying palm splayed across her waist as she brushes a thumb across Natasha’s cheek to catch a single tear that had slipped through the cracks of her facade. 

Natasha frowns and forces a gentle laugh, “I’m sorry.” 

Sharon shakes her head and her dark eyes glow even brighter with that inexplicable goodness, “It’s okay.” 

Natasha peers at Sharon with a soft and unassuming expression. Looking at her face in the shadowy glow reflected off the worn tiles makes something ache inside her, like the sudden sear of a bullet tearing through her skin before it was replaced by cold. But that cold never comes. 

Her overwhelming affection for the blonde has manifested so quietly and violently within her, fills her mouth with a luscious taste, hums in her ears. 

“Nat?” Her voice is so soft, always such a contrast to the unwavering attention her tone demanded when working. 

Natasha feels her hair being brought away from her face, tucked behind her ears with an assured hand. The same palm comes to cradle her cheek. 

The noise in her head sputters and she forces herself to accept a fragile breath. She nods quietly in response.

Sharon holds Natasha delicately, not because she’s afraid she might break, but just because she wants to show the assassin that she deserves softness. Her kind touch isn’t altered by the intel divulged on the internet by Natasha herself, nor the history written in the crumbling building where Natasha was made. Sharon doesn’t see the weapon that Natasha has tried to build a person around, she just sees whatever humanity Natasha can offer. 

Sharon takes Natasha’s hand, cradling her palm. She follows the paths of her veins towards the mars on her wrist, the ghost of the physical shackles that tethered Natasha to the Red Room. Sharon rubs the pads of her thumb across the fading gouges in Natasha’s skin. 

“I’m sorry this happened to you.” 

Natasha shrugs and smiles weakly, “me too.” 

“You’re a good person, Natasha.”

Most days Natasha doesn’t even feel like a person, but she nods anyway. She _knows_ she trusts Sharon’s judgment.

Epilogue

The room is orange with the afternoon glow, the air alive with the rumble of D.C.

A breeze dares to flit through, arouse goosebumps across their naked skin. 

Sunlight catches the glimmer of affection in Sharon’s eyes, pouring in through the gap in the curtains. 

Natasha draws Sharon’s hands towards her heart, tipping her head to press her lips to Sharon’s knuckles. 

They’re lying on their sides, Sharon’s forehead pressed to Natasha’s, her blonde hair whispering against Natasha’s face. Natasha toys with the golden strands framing her features as Sharon drags lazy fingertips across Natasha’s thigh, slung over her side. Natasha swallows a breath from Sharon’s lips, stroking the delicate architecture of her jaw. 

Sharon gazes at Natasha for a moment, just peering at her with a quiet smile gracing her face. 

When Natasha gently inquires about it she flushes, a laugh capturing her lovesick face. 

It warmed Natasha, there was something subduedly special about being regarded so delicately and fervently.

Natasha draws her knuckles gently across the round swell of Sharon’s face, smiling when she leans into her touch with her eyes closed and lips curved.

Sharon’s voice floats gently to settle into Natasha’s thoughts, “I have to do some recon in Tallinn next week, wanna come with?” 

Rogers was holed up somewhere in Europe with Barnes, reveling every moment since he got him back, and Wilson was back at the VA. Natasha figured she could forego a shift of diligence. She kept herself occupied looking after her friends, it gave her the security she had lacked for so long. 

Sharon was skilled at easing Natasha into the understanding that it was okay to allow herself that same attention. With words or quiet kisses on Natasha’s forehead, Sharon was always reminding her of that sentiment. Sharon took the tatters of a person that Natasha clung to and stitched them together. 

“You sure know how to romance a girl, Carter.” 

“No, I know how to romance you.”

Natasha thinks for a moment, stroking Sharon’s upper arm absentmindedly, “Yeah, you do.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!


End file.
